


A Christmas Carol, or The Ghost Who Didn't Steal Christmas

by Baylor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Gen, Ghosts, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baylor/pseuds/Baylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a cold, Dean has a broken arm, it's Christmas, and yet they're still working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Carol, or The Ghost Who Didn't Steal Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written many seasons ago, when I had no idea the show would go on so long. At the time it was written, envisioned as a post-series story.

The key was right where Bobby said it would be, hanging from a nail on a side window. “What kind of hick place is this, anyway?” Dean muttered as he worked it into the front door lock. “Leave their keys just lying around outside for anyone to use?”

Sam, his mittened hands shoved under his armpits, nose red with cold and cheeks flush with fever, shivered and said, “Northern Minnesota in the dead of winter. What idiots besides us are up here?”

Dean glanced back as the key slid home. “You look like hell,” he remarked, and then struggled to make his fingers, swollen and poking out of the cast, turn the knob. Sam muttered something inaudible that Dean magnanimously chose to ignore.

He was vaguely aware of dark paneling and carpet from the ‘70s, but after five hours on the road, his arm throbbing every mile of it, listening to Sam hack and sniffle in his sleep, all Dean wanted was to go to bed. He located rooms to throw their bags into and a bathroom to clean up in. By the time he came out, Sam was asleep on one of the beds, so Dean just tugged his boots off and pulled a comforter off another bed and covered him up before crawling into a bed in the next room. The house was chilly but the comforter and pillows were feather and the sheets were flannel and he was out in seconds.

* * * 

”Dude, Bobby said this was a cabin,” Sam greeted him from the couch late the next morning, but Dean was too dazed by the brilliant sunlight, pouring through the massive picture windows and glinting off the snow and ice, to answer. “When a hunter says ‘cabin’ I think about places like that shack in Tennessee that Dad had us holed up in when I was 12. Remember that place?”

Dean did, and it was a far cry from this place. Sure, there was tacky ‘70s wood paneling and tacky ‘70s carpet, but the two walls of picture windows pointed over the lake more than made up for it. So did the enormous fireplace in the living room, and the leather furniture in front of it.

“Who does Bobby know who owns a place like this?” Dean asked, wandering over to the windows. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the sudden flood of light, he could see a private dock down at the frozen lake, and what looked like a sauna attached to it. 

Sam shrugged and picked his book back up. He’d brought the comforter with him from the bed, and had created a small mountain of used Kleenex. “Some people he did a job for,” he answered. “We need to start helping out more rich people.”

“Looks like,” Dean said. “This place must be great in the summer. Guess you’re glad we didn’t just go to Bobby’s after all, huh?” He turned around, waiting for Sam’s bitchy “you were right” face, but apparently Sam didn’t feel good enough to accommodate, and just shrugged instead.

“I’m just glad it’s got running water and heat,” Sam said. “Bobby’s idea of ‘nice’ doesn’t always turn out this good. Besides, he was only like two hours farther.”

“Sam, not every place in the country is two hours from Bobby’s house,” Dean said, his arm giving an irritated throb. “Anyway, after last year’s Singer Christmas Spectacular, I didn’t want to end up trapped there at the holidays, especially not with you all sick and moaning and me all banged up.”

Sam muttered something that could have been, “You mean you don’t want to hear from Bobby again what a moron you are,” but it was quickly followed by, “Coffee’s ready for you,” so Dean took the high road and just poured himself a cup. In fact, he made tea with honey and whiskey for his sick and moaning brother while he was at it. Dean thought he was turning into a right altruistic human being in his old age. And he bet Sam didn’t even think he knew that word.

* * * 

The Conners had a satellite dish, but sadly no porn. Dean did get to gouge himself on the original X-Men cartoons while Sam snored in congestive misery on the couch all afternoon, but even classic cartoons only kill so much time. He backtracked the Impala down the narrow dirt drive to the main highway to the improbably named “Zup’s,” seemingly the only grocery store in about 50 miles. It also sold firewood, firearms and sweatshirts. The rest of town consisted of a McDonald’s, a gas station, a liquor store, a diner and a post office. Dean hit everything but the diner and the post office before heading back to the cabin.

Despite his declaration that he would surely die soon when asked how he felt, Sam scarfed down a Big Mac, large fries and large shake before crashing on the couch again, leaving Dean with 286 channels, the La-Z-Boy, and the beer. Dean decided that Sam was definitely right about them helping out more rich people in the future.

Sam was still snoring on the couch when Dean went to bed, but he’d moved to snoring in his bed by the time Dean got up the next morning. Dean managed to find everything he needed in the large kitchen to make coffee and toast frozen waffles and had just started eating when someone knocked on the door.

The bundled-up man on the porch had the weathered face of someone who had endured a lot of Minnesota winters. He waved amiably when Dean opened the door. 

“Hello, there,” the man said chipperly. “Didn’t realize you boys had got in already or I would’ve been here sooner. I’m Kenny, from down the way.” He jerked a thumb back the drive, which split off at one point to what Dean presumed must be “down the way.” “I watch out for the place for the Conners, make sure guests have everything they need, everything in working order. But you look like you got in all right.”

“Hey,” Dean said, and offered out his good hand. “Yeah, no problems, the place is great.”

“Heat all right?” Kenny asked. “Should be lots of firewood, inside and in the woodshed. Smells like you found the coffee, too,” and he gave Dean an expectant look.

“Ah, yeah,” Dean said, glancing toward his quickly cooling waffles. “Actually, I was just about to have breakfast.”

“Oh, no, no breakfast for me,” Kenny said. “I get mine down at the Silver Spoon in town, keep up on all the news that way. Love some coffee though.”

Dean was also getting old enough to know when he was defeated, so he invited Kenny in with his best grace, poured him some coffee, and then heard all about the local high school basketball team’s season. It was nothing, of course, compared to the season they had back when Kenny’s son was captain, but it was fair enough, might make the championships if the boys worked hard. Near enough to make up for a sad showing of a football season.

“I guess you’re in a bad way, what with your arm,” Kenny said once high school sports had taken him through two cups of coffee.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said. “I had a little fall.” When Kenny just looked at him expectantly, he added, “Down some stairs.”

“You oughta sue for that!” Kenny said. “There’s that lawyer, on the television, can get you a bundle of money.”

“It was pretty much my fault,” Dean said, by which he meant that he was not only trespassing at the time, but actually committing a felony and thus disinclined to file suit.

Kenny shrugged. “All right, then. Thought you had a brother coming with you?”

“Still sleeping,” Dean said. “He’s been fighting off a cold.”

“Guess you boys needed a place to hole up,” Kenny said, finishing his second cup of coffee. Dean did not offer to refill it. “No family to stay with for the holidays?”

“Nope, just the two of us,” Dean said. 

“Well, that’s still family enough,” Kenny said kindly, finally sliding off the stool at the kitchen counter. “Hope your brother gets to feeling better soon. Lots of nice winter sporting up here, you boys like to ski or snowmobile.”

“Maybe, if we stick around that long,” Dean answered, and helpfully handed Kenny his hat and mittens. 

“Holler if you need anything,” Kenny said, bundling up. “Remember, I’m just --”

“Down the way,” Dean finished, waving his hand down the drive. “Right. Thanks a lot, I appreciate it.”

Kenny waved merrily as he trudged back down the frozen drive and Dean shut the door with relief. Kenny seemed a nice enough guy, but, seriously, how much high school sports was one man supposed to take before he’d even finished his waffles?

* * *

Dean woke up in the dead of the night and at first didn’t know why, then realized it was because Sam was shaking him. 

“What? What?” he groused, rubbing his eyes. “You okay? You sick?”

“There’s something out on the lake,” Sam said. “I think it might be a truck.”

“Wha?” Dean said.

“I think it might be sinking,” Sam said and left the room. Dean stumbled after him, and found Sam pulling on his coat and boots. 

“Dude, you sick?” Dean mumbled. 

“Dean, wake up,” Sam said sharply. “I saw lights out on the lake, looked like headlights. And then they looked like they were sinking, but now I can’t see them. We gotta go down there, see if someone’s in trouble.”

Dean looked around the kitchen, but found nothing to help him, so he said, “Okay,” and put on his boots and coats. 

There were lights leading down to the dock, and Sam had shoved a flashlight into Dean’s hands, but it was still treacherous. And cold. Really, really cold. And dark. And the lake was -- empty. They shone their flashlights in wide arches over the frozen ice, but nowhere could they see a disturbance.

“Maybe it sunk,” Sam said uncertainly.

“We’d hear it,” Dean said. “We’d see it. A truck would make a huge hole in the ice, man. What’d you see?”

“I swear, it looked just like headlights,” Sam asserted. “I got up to self-medicate and then I couldn’t sleep so I was reading on the couch. They were so bright they shone right into the living room.”

Dean gave it one final look, reassuring himself that there was nothing out there. He eyeballed Sam, wondering if he’d fallen asleep and dreamed it. “How you feeling?” he asked, waiting to hear Sam gripe at him. Instead, Sam just stared doubtfully out at the lake.

“I’m freezing,” Dean said. “Let’s go inside.”

Back in the kitchen, he offered up, “Maybe they were headlights, and whoever it was drove off the lake.”

“Maybe,” Sam muttered, then jerked his head away when Dean put a hand on his forehead. “I’m not delirious,” he said sharply. “I’m going back to bed.”

“You got me up,” Dean muttered sullenly, but he still put their gear away for them.

* * * 

Sam slept late again, not stirring when Dean checked him for fever. He was warm, but not sick-hot, so Dean just let him sleep. He was working on frozen waffle stack No. 2 when the knock came.

“Hey, Kenny, question for you,” Dean managed to get in after a lengthily recounting of the 1991 boys basketball state championship game during which Kenny’s son led the Beavers to a glorious near-victory. 

“Oh, sure, fire away,” Kenny said eagerly. Kenny, Dean had discovered, loved to expound upon local knowledge.

“People ever drive on the lake out here?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Kenny said, nodding. “Not this time of year, though. Ice isn’t thick enough yet. But come January, February, you can drive right on out to the islands. Hope you’re not thinking of trying a drive?”

Dean shook his head. “No, Sam thought he saw headlights on the lake late last night. I think he must of been dreaming. Vehicles ever go through out here?”

“I’ve seen it happen a few times over the year, people who don’t know what they’re doing, taking their truck, even their snowmobile, out before it’s safe,” Kenny said, helping himself to a second cup of coffee. “Even local folks sometimes -- hit a weak spot, get unlucky. Living up here, you gotta know what you’re doing, but even so, Mother Nature’s in charge, not you.” Then he laughed and lifted his coffee cup, in salute, Dean assumed, to Mother Nature. He smiled back easily at Kenny and tipped his cup in response.

“Hey, Kenny,” he said once he’d set down his cup, “think you could help me out with a little something this morning?”

* * * 

Sam finally kicked his cold after a few days but he was still too much of a wimp to make it through the Terminator marathon. He was also still congested enough to be snoring away when Dean shut off the television and stood up, stretching, then stopped, looking down at the lake.

Unmistakably, headlights. He reached out with his cast and knocked Sam in the head. “Ow!” they both said at the same time.

“Dude, what the f--” Sam said, but Dean just pointed with his good hand. They scrambled for coats, boots and flashlights and pitched themselves down the icy path.

This time there was no mistaking it -- headlights, creaking water, and a man, calling for help. They pounded down onto the dock, Sam whipping out his cell phone. “No signal,” he gasped, and turned around. “Don’t go out there!” he wheezed. “Let me call--”

“No. Way,” said Dean, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the scene. He reached out and yanked on Sam’s arm.

“I gotta call--” Sam started, and then shut his mouth.

There was nothing out there. No truck, no broken ice, no man calling for help. No matter where they swung their flashlights, it was all gone, the frozen lake undisturbed.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean said. “I thought Bobby fixed these people’s problem.”

Sam didn’t answer at first, just stood there sniffling, sounding like he was working on that cold again. “Well, at least we didn’t screw up the job this time,” he finally said.

* * * 

“What’s Bobby say?” Dean asked the next morning, scarfing down the last of the frozen waffles. 

“That we’re jackasses,” Sam said, putting down the house phone. “Also, that he did fix the Conner’s problem -- at their house in Ohio. They’ve never had a problem at the summer lake house, not that they’ve mentioned to him.” He watched Dean clean his plate and then said petulantly, “I didn’t even get any of those, Dean.”

“You’ve been sick,” Dean said around his mouthful. “They’re not good for you.” He tossed his plate in the sink and wiped his mouth with a paper towel. “Come on, we got work to do,” he declared and strode out of the kitchen. 

Kenny wasn’t at the Silver Spoon, but every other old-timer in town was. Dean valiantly put away another waffle, a real one this time, with strawberries and whipped cream, and nodded sagely at the multitude of legal advice about getting a big payout for his broken arm. Sam ate his own waffle with what Dean considered a disgraceful lack of appreciation and finally took advantage of a break in the advisory chatter and tales about other people’s big payouts.

“Hey, we heard that you can actually drive out to the islands on the lake once it’s solid enough,” Sam said. “Is that true? Seems kind of crazy to people not from around here, driving on the lake like that.”

Dean had a distinct memory of a very pissy Sam driving Dad’s truck out onto Big Manistique Lake in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula on a very cold New Year’s Eve, followed by a very unpleasant New Year’s Day filled with Winchester door-slamming and chair-kicking. The old-timers, having no such memory, verbally fell over each other in their ambition to educate this curious young man from places south. Dean had another cup of coffee and let them run themselves out before asking, “Out near where we’re staying -- anyone ever go through out there?”

“Hope you boys ain’t thinking of taking that fine vehicle out on the ice,” the oldest geezer drawled, but Dean just grinned at him.

“Perish the thought!” he said. “Might be willing to risk my little brother here, but not the car.” He got a roar of laughter for that one, but it died down quickly when one of the men said, “Aye, lost a good friend a few years back, one of our regulars here. Good fellow, too.”

“Oh, yeah, good fellow, what a shame,” the room murmured, shaking their heads and tipping their hats. 

“Lived right out by there, born and raised here,” the old-timer said. “Knew what he was doing, but you know how it is -- you’re never really in charge out here--”

“Mother Nature is,” Dean finished for him. “I know a guy like that.”

* * * 

“Maybe it’s the waffles,” Sam said in the car.

“What?” Dean asked, annoyed.

“You know, making you stupid,” Sam said. “Maybe it’s the waffles that have you serving coffee to a ghost for like a freakin’ week without knowing it.” 

“Maybe it’s not him,” Dean said. “Let’s just stop in, down the way, and check it out.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “Because it’s another Kenny who died out on the ice a few winters ago.”

“Could be,” Dean said. He doggedly looked forward, not at Sam’s bitchface. 

“You know what else those waffles are doing to you?” Sam finally said.

“Save it,” Dean warned. He may have grown old enough to take the high road more often, but he wasn’t so old that he wouldn’t pull that car over and make Sam sorry, preferably with a handful of snow down the back of his pants. And, hey, a few extra pounds were only going to help him in that endeavor. 

Kenny’s house was empty, of course. Sam finally picked the lock when no one answered the door. The few pieces of furniture were draped and dusty storage boxes neatly lined the hallway.

“All right,” Dean finally said that night over frozen pizza, when he thought he could talk about it without bashing Sam’s nose in with his cast or banging his own head repeatedly against the wall. “So, we can’t exactly salt and burn him.”

“Not with his body at the bottom of the lake,” Sam agreed.

“And we can’t have him hanging around, luring people out onto the ice with him sloshing around, calling for help,” Dean continued. “Sooner or later, someone’s going to go out to help him on thin ice and end up joining him in the lake.”

“Yep,” Sam said. “Also, can’t have him drinking up everyone’s coffee all over town, talking about basketball games of long ago.”

Dean thought he deserved some kind of medal for letting that one go by, something that said, “Best Brother In Existence,” or, “Most Tolerant Brother Alive.” 

“Guess we better find out what he wants,” Dean said. He glumly chewed on his pizza, then said in disgust, “Man, I can’t believe we’ve gotta do this frickin’ ghost-whispering thing again.”

Sam started with a chuckle, but it soon became an all-out belly laugh. Dean ate his pizza too. It served him right.

* * * 

“The elusive Sam!” Kenny said with delight the next morning. “Starting to think you didn’t exist.” 

Dean sputtered on his coffee, but Sam just smiled gamely and handed Kenny a ready cup. “Take it you’re feeling better,” Kenny said, gladly accepting the coffee.

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam said. “I was really hurting for a while there. This is a great place to get my feet back under me.”

“Oh, you bet,” Kenny said. “Fresh air, nice and quiet, got your good big brother looking out for you.” He clapped Dean on the shoulder and Dean managed not to wince. Then Kenny said low to Sam, like Dean wasn’t standing right there, “Maybe you ought to talk to him about a lawyer, you know, for the arm. Could get a big payout.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna talk about that after the holidays,” Sam said. “It’s what I keep telling him.”

Kenny nodded and gave Dean a look that clearly said ‘Listen to your brother,’ before starting in on his coffee. Dean tried to look like he wasn’t eyeballing Kenny and at the same time tried to figure out where that coffee was going, since Kenny was most certainly not digesting it.

Kenny didn’t get to the point any more than usual, despite Sam’s persistent fishing, and Dean was on coffee No. 3 before Kenny started in on the 1991 Beaver near-state champions again. Sam listened eagerly, that dopey, inviting expression he was so good at on his face, nodding encouragingly, and finally said, “It sounds like you’re really proud of your son.”

Kenny looked out over the lake. “Couldn’t be prouder,” he said gruffly, then looked down at his coffee.

Yahtzee. “He keep up with the sports after high school?” Sam asked, knowing just where to prod. 

“Nope, nope,” Kenny said. “Boy, I would have loved to see that, but he had his own ideas. Works with computers, stuff I don’t understand. Wanted the big city, he did, big-time life.”

“You sound like you miss him,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “He’s done right good for himself. Ought to let him know more.”

Dean watched his brother’s face carefully. “Guess it can be hard, you’ve got an idea in your head of what your kid’s life is going to be like, and then he’s got his own ideas,” he said.

Kenny nodded, turning his coffee cup around in his hand. “Sounds like you went down that path.”

Dean grinned. “Me? Naw. I’m the good son. Baby brother here’s the one who wanted to do things his own way all the time. Could really piss our dad off. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t proud of him, loved him.”

Kenny looked up, gave Dean a wry grin. “Hard to say, though.”

Dean took Kenny’s now empty cup and set it in the sink. “Some things aren’t better left unsaid.”

“Aye,” Kenny said, reaching for his coat. “Well, it’s the holidays. Maybe I could give him a call, let him know.”

“Sure,” Dean said, and showed Kenny out.

Sam was washing the dishes when he came back into the kitchen. “Look at you, with the ghost-whispering,” he said.

“Bite me,” Dean said.

* * * 

One of the dusty storage boxes in Kenny’s hallway was virtually a tribute to Kenny Jr., or, as some of the photos and trophies indicated, “Buddy.” Buddy had abandoned quite a promising sporting career in favor of computers and the “big-time life,” but in amongst the ribbons and team photos and newspaper articles from the Sports section were carefully clipped news briefs from trade magazines, printed out pages from websites and a book entitled “Everything You Need To Know About Computers!”

The “big city” Kenny had referred to wasn’t all that big, and was only three hours away, even on the snowy roads. “How do we know if this worked?” Sam asked on the drive back.

Dean shrugged. “I guess if Kenny keeps showing up for coffee, well, then it didn’t work.”

“That’s some scientific method you have there,” Sam said, but he was smiling.

As they pulled in the drive, Dean said, “Isn’t it Christmas Eve?”

Sam thought and then nodded. “Actually, yes.”

“Wanna make a food run to Zup’s?” he asked. “Get us some Christmas things?”

“Christmas things,” Sam repeated.

“You know, pie, turkey, Cool Whip.” Dean put the Impala in park and smiled in happy memory. “Remember when we were kids and Ellen would give us a whole tub of Cool Whip and a couple of spoons all to ourselves?”

“Dean, that was two years ago,” Sam said.

“Yeah, that was a good Christmas,” Dean said, and got out of the car.

“What?” Sam asked, leaning over from the passenger seat. “You want me to go alone?”

“Dude, my arm’s broken!” Dean protested. “You want me to carry groceries and stuff like this? What’s the matter with you?” Then he shut the car door in Sam’s bewildered face. 

Fortunately for Dean, Sam took almost an hour to get back. Everything was a lot harder than Dean thought it would be, because when he cooked the idea up, he thought he’d have Kenny around to help him out and not just be banging around by himself with a busted arm. He opened the door for Sam and discovered that he was carrying not only a grocery bag but two large, warm styrofoam containers.

“What’s this?” Dean asked, taking the grocery bag. 

“Christmas stuff,” Sam said. He set the containers down and opened one to reveal the works -- turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, cooked vegetables, what appeared to be actual uncanned cranberry sauce. Dean’s mouth watered just smelling it. “Dude,” he said in genuine appreciation. 

“I saw a sign up at the Silver Spoon that you could buy these today,” Sam said. “And wait!” He reached into the grocery bag and pulled out a pumpkin pie and not one but two tubs of Cool Whip. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“Wow,” Dean said. “You’ve truly outdone yourself. In fact, I think we should use real plates.”

“And non-plastic silverware,” Sam said. They transferred food and Sam started to sit at the kitchen counter but Dean stopped him.

“I made us a fire,” he said.

“You did?” Sam said in surprise. They had both ignored the enormous fireplace so far. 

Dean shrugged. “It’s Christmas. Let’s eat out there.”

Sam started laughing as soon as he set foot in the living room. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “Where did you find it?”

“Find it!” Dean scoffed. “I made that thing! The Conners’ pantry was overflowing with their recycling. I just -- recycled it for them.”

Sam set down his plate and fingered the large faux velvet bow on the beer can wreath over the fireplace. “And this?”

Dean shrugged. “Lady at Zup’s did it for me. I may be getting old, but I can still be charming.”

Sam laughed in unabashed delight. “This is awesome, Dean, seriously.”

“I told you,” Dean said, sitting down and preparing to dig in. “You never appreciated the finer things in life when you were a kid.”

Sam sat down beside him and picked up his own plate. “That is very true,” he said. 

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” Dean said. “Now, let’s eat."


End file.
